


take this light and carry it home

by anorchidisnotaflower



Category: Fargo (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Infidelity, M/M, Mutual Pining, One Shot, Panic Attacks, Post s4e05, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:47:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27162715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anorchidisnotaflower/pseuds/anorchidisnotaflower
Summary: Weff bites the inside of his cheek, glances up. Their eyes meet, and Deafy feels that deadbolt sureness again. The thing like a lock being shut between them, a string tied in a firm knot.U.S. Marshal Dick "Deafy" Wickware and Detective Odis Weff are trapped by the things that bind them— and stuck on a collision course they could never predict.
Relationships: Dick "Deafy" Wickware/Odis Weff
Comments: 19
Kudos: 32





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Big, big thanks to [Theyfightcrime](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theyfightcrime), the only other member of this ship fandom.
> 
> I know this fic will probably become an AU as soon as the next episode comes out, but I had to write this anyway. The infidelity tag is in reference to the existence of Deafy's wife, and Odis' experiences with OCD in this fic are largely based on my own personal experiences.

It starts, as most things do, with a question.

“How did this tapping of yours come about?” Dick “Deafy” Wickware asks. The car is parked on Main Street, carefully parallel to the curb. Detective Odis Weff is nothing if not precise, and Deafy has had more than enough time to learn that these past few weeks.

“Why do you want to know?” Weff says. He’s distracted, as he always is, fingers marking out careful patterns on each other. Deafy tilts his head, noting the number. Five times, over and over.

“I’m an interested man asking an interested question.” He glances down at his watch— plenty of time. Their casework has been slow of late, dragging like tires without chains through the snow. No appointments to keep, no suspects to interview. He's already done his work for the week. Now, it's just some refocusing, if anything, but Deafy’s curiosity has forever gotten the better of him.

Weff says nothing to that, huffing instead.

“Aren’t you a detective?” Deafy smiles. “I thought you liked questions.”

“Ones with easy answers,” Weff fires back.

“Not much of a detective, then, are you?”

“Never have been.”

Deafy’s smile tilts. “I wouldn’t say that. We’re partners, aren’t we?”

Weff shrugs, leaving it at that.

“Well,” Deafy says, never able to keep quiet for too long, “you ever thought about getting rid of it?”

Weff glances over. “No. I haven’t. Why would I.”

“No need to get smart,” Deafy says, holding up his hands.

“Don’t make fun of me,” Weff mumbles, looking away as he does. That’s the trip, isn’t it— still won’t look Deafy in the eye.

“I’m not,” Deafy shrugs. “Just passing remarks on your condition, as it were.”

He leans back in the car seat as much as he can, glancing over at Weff from under the brim of his hat.

“You know,” Deafy says, “I’m something of an exorcist myself. Might help.”

Weff doesn’t dignify him with a reply. Still tapping away on his fingers, muttering under his breath.

“You going to wrap that up anytime soon so we can get moving?”

“Fuck you,” Weff says, monotone.

“Pardon?” Deafy leans in for good measure.

Weff finishes up whatever counting he’s done and finally turns, eyeing him. “Your nickname is annoying. Should change it.”

“To what?” Deafy can’t help but indulge this line of questioning.

Weff almost laughs. Almost huffs. “Bastard. Bible thumper. Exorcist.”

“I like that one,” Deafy nods. “Has a ring to it, don’t it?”

“Take that up with the Almighty, if you’re so inclined,” Weff mutters, but hey, there’s something almost like a smile on his face.

“Exorcist Wickware. Almost as good as Pastor Wickware, or U.S. Marshal,” Deafy hums.

“Too many titles.”

“Why? You just got the one, Mr. Weff?”

“Detective.” Weff glares. “Get it right or you won’t be an exorcist for very much longer.”

“I can’t hear you through all the threats you’re making there,” Deafy grins. “But was that Detective Weff I heard?”

“Better.” Weff turns away, and damn, maintaining his attention is like trying to rein in a wild horse in a tornado. As tricky as you’d think— and then some.

“C’mon,” Deafy says, shoving Weff’s seat to avoid touching him. He didn’t seem to like that much last time.

“Back to the office?”

“We need a good plate of breakfast,” Deafy says. “Least, that’s what I need. You might need a, what is it… calming herbal remedy.”

Weff rolls his eyes. “Spare me the details.”

“Your pick, then,” Deafy smiles. “On the house.”

Weff raises an eyebrow, and there’s that slightest quirk to his lips. “If I order a steak meal, you’re paying?”

“I’m only as honest as the Good Lord made me.” Deafy swings the car door open, stepping out into the cool Missouri sunshine. He leans back into the car for a moment, finally meeting eyes with Weff.

He’s skittish, but when they lock eyes, it feels like a deadbolt sliding into place.

“Then pay up,” Weff says, and he smiles.

It’s not a half-bad look on him, neither.

* * *

Odis Weff takes one step into the diner and is instantly on guard. The place is packed— lunchtime rush. The sounds are what hit him first, the overlapping voices with so many different accents and inflections, “Did you hear—” “And what about the—“ “—you should’ve known they’d—"

And then the smells, bacon sizzling on pans thick with layers of grease, leather caught in the snow drying in the afternoon sun, old coffee left to stew in the pot turned cold and flat—

“Let’s take the booth in the back,” Wickware says into Odis’ ear.

It’s like a gentle refocus— a shift of the light from too-bright to clear. A string to hang onto in the middle of chaos.

Odis nods, letting Wickware guide them over. Sitting down is better, more grounded, and leaves less room for error. There’s less chance to be in the way in a seat. And it’s much easier to hide his rituals like this, fingers tapping under the table.

The waitress approaches their table with a placid smile. “What are we having, gentlemen?”

Her blouse is a little too loose, her apron tied too tight. Can’t afford the uniform, Odis notes, might be more to it? But he’s never been a very good detective. His observations never quite turn into discovery.

“Orange juice for me,” Wickware says, “and a big plate of bacon and eggs, if you’ve got ‘em.”

“We sure do,” she nods. “And you?”

Odis shrugs. “Coffee.”

“Thought you wanted to take advantage of my hospitality,” Wickware grins.

Odis frowns. Is he really offering? Why bring it up again? Didn’t seem like the type to pay for an elaborate breakfast, but he’s been wrong before. Maybe it wasn’t all a joke to him.

“Uh, pancakes. Bacon,” Odis says, glancing up at the waitress. “Extra bacon.”

“Sure thing,” she says, and then she’s gone with a turn of her heel.

Odis looks back to find Wickware still smiling at him, looking every bit pleased as a peach.

“What’s got you in such a good mood?” Odis asks.

“I’m looking forward to some decent food,” Wickware says, taking off his hat. “And good company.”

Odis huffs. “I’m not an ideal lunch date.”

“You’re just fine,” Wickware says, a glint in his eye.

The waitress reappears with a coffee pot and a crisp glass of orange juice before whirling away again once the drinks are settled. Odis carefully drops two spoons of sugar into his coffee, swirling it five times both ways.

“No milk?” Wickware gently pushes the small jug toward him.

Odis shakes his head. “I prefer tasting it. Thanks.”

Wickware laughs. “Tastes like dirt if you ask me. But I’ll stick to my orange juice.”

“Your loss.” Odis takes a sip, the bitter taste a welcome distraction.

“Well,” Wickware starts, taking a rather large sip of juice, “I am in a good mood for another reason.”

Odis hums, raising an eyebrow.

“Case is progressing nicely,” Wickware says. “Said I’d let you know, didn’t I?”

“Shook all those trees?”

“And they bore sweet, ripe fruit.” Wickware grins, all teeth. “Suspects have been located, but I need your expertise finding them.”

Odis frowns. “Didn’t you just say you located them?”

Wickware nods. “I know who has them. I just need your know-how of the area to get ‘em out.”

Odis takes a slow sip of his coffee. “Someone… took them?”

“You know anything about the Cannons?” Wickware asks, leaning back in his seat.

Odis slowly puts his mug down, begging his hands not to shake. Wickware has no idea what he’s digging into, and if Odis is lucky, he’ll never know.

“Of course I do,” Odis finally says. “You hear plenty around town.”

“That little shakedown of yours, too,” Wickware points out. “That was directed at the Cannons, yeah?”

“Not… directed as such,” Odis says. He taps his fingers, fast, onetwothreefourfive.

“Sure seemed like a jab at them.” Wickware straightens up, taking a swig of his orange juice.

“The department had been meaning to take a stab at them, yes, if that’s what you’re asking,” Odis tries.

Wickware raises his brows, mouth hidden behind his glass.

Odis sighs. “Just to keep them in check. This kind of thing is normal.”

“Then why not do the same to the Faddas?”

If Odis had been taking a sip, he would have choked. One little Indian, two little Indians…

“You all right?” Wickware asks, having the audacity to actually look concerned. “You’re muttering again.”

“Fine, fine.” Three little Indians, four…

“Weff? I just asked a question—”

The waitress appears like a specter at their elbows, carrying two plates heaped high with food. “Here we are, gentlemen!”

Odis breathes, or tries to, watching the waitress gently lay their plates down on the table as though he were down a long, long hallway. The only thing he can hear now is the sound of his own heart, thudding in his ears, and if he could just count in the right order he could calm down and focus and just get it _right_ —

“Odis? You going to eat that?”

Odis blinks, not even sure he heard Wickware speak. “What?”

“I said,” Wickware smiles, sideways, “are you going to eat that?”

He points to Odis’ plate with his fork, and that’s when Odis notices the waitress has been gone for a few minutes. Wickware’s halfway through his eggs, and Odis’ pancakes are steaming away in front of him.

“You got all that extra bacon,” Wickware says. “Mind sharing?”

Odis breathes out, slow and steady. “Didn’t you tell me this was on the house?”

Wickware chuckles. “Sorry, didn’t quite catch that.” He spears a piece of bacon with his fork before Odis can protest and takes a bite, his mouth curved in a smile.

“Hey,” Odis says, gesturing.

Wickware widens his eyes as though to say, “Who, me?”

Odis can’t help but laugh a bit at the display, breathy and off-kilter. He finally takes his hat off, slicing into the pancakes before they get too cold.

They’re both silent while they eat, though Odis keeps stealing glances over at his partner, loathe as he is to use the title. There’s something strange about him. Not much of a leap of logic there, but Wickware’s taken more notice of Odis than anyone else ever has. Actually showed up at his apartment and didn’t seem to mind the Hummel figurines everywhere, or judge the sob story Odis had never told anyone.

He just seemed concerned for his… friend. The word feels odd, even in Odis’ mind. Friends have never been easy to come by, and even harder to keep. Wickware — Deafy, whatever he preferred — was the first in a long time to try.

Odis would be lying if he said he didn’t appreciate the effort.

“You were asking about the Faddas,” Odis says, applauding himself for keeping a steady voice.

“Mh-hmm,” Wickware nods, mouth full of eggs. “You know them, right?”

Odis shrugs. “I have a, uh… contact there. Doesn’t always do much for me, but it comes in handy.”

“That fella we saw at the station the other day?” Wickware dips a piece of toast into his egg and crunches into it. He gets crumbs everywhere, and Odis tries not to swipe at them.

“The same. He’s a bit jumpy.”

Wickware laughs. “Remind you of anyone?”

“I told you to stop making fun of me,” Odis says.

“I’m not,” Wickware says, holding up his hands. It looks a bit silly when he’s holding a fork and knife.

Odis looks back down at his plate, dunking a piece of pancake into a river of syrup. “That’s all I know. The Faddas have been around a long time. Much longer than the Cannons.”

“And that makes a difference when you’re dealing with them?” Wickware asks. “We deal with crime families all the same in Salt Lake.”

“Look,” Odis says. “I don’t know how things are done in Salt Lake. But here, we don’t try to get ourselves killed. Or get involved in cases that aren’t ours.”

Wickware shrugs, looking every bit the innocent man.

Odis takes another bite of pancakes. “We just keep them in check, and the Cannons were getting out of hand.”

Wickware dabs at his mouth with a napkin. “And the Faddas aren’t?”

“They’re—” Odis sighs, putting his fork down. “They’re relatively quiet. For them. So we’re not making any moves just yet.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me if they had some of your buddies in their pocket,” Wickware says. “If you take my meaning.”

Odis’ leg starts shaking, and he presses down on it with one hand. “Buddies?”

Wickware shrugs. “Any of your coworkers, higher-ups. Easy enough to bribe a cop.”

Odis half-smiles, huffs. “True.”

Wickware tilts his head. “You know anything about that, Weff?”

“No, of course—”

“Because you can tell me,” Wickware interrupts, leaning in over the table. “I’m a U.S. Marshal, yes, but I’ve learned when to not be a snitch.”

Odis goes still as Wickware stares at him, unblinking. There’s an unbridled intensity in his gaze— a real detective, taking stock of everything around him and strolling to the one, inevitable conclusion.

Odis is not a criminal, but damn, he wishes he was right now if only to divert Wickware’s suspicion for this one moment. Criminals know how to trick, to deceive, and all Odis knows how to do is to lie there, an open book for anyone to read.

Wickware is reading him like a picture book right now. So Odis plays the only card he has left.

“I can tell you where the Cannons’ hideout is,” Odis says.

Wickware frowns, leaning back into his seat. “Can you?”

Odis nods. “Captain said I’d be your guide.”

Wickware snorts. “Fair enough. Guide me, then.”

“It’s not hard to spot,” Odis says. “Might be tricky to get into, but I’d bet that’s where you’ll find your suspects.”

Wickware runs his hand through his hair, humming. “Couldn’t storm the place. We’d need to be quiet.”

He looks sharply at Odis, and Odis jumps, silently curses as his leg bounces off the table.

“We’ll go in,” Wickware says. “You and me.”

“No back-up?” Odis asks, barely able to get the words out.

Wickware grins, slow and wicked and not like a pastor at all. “We get in there, get those women, and get out. No back-up required.”

“When?”

“Tonight.”

Odis has to laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Of course. Tonight.”

Wickware grins, patting the table next to Odis’ hand. “We’ll be fine, partner. Trust me.”

Odis meets Wickware’s eyes for a brief moment. “I’ll try.”

* * *

Deafy picks Weff up at 11:00 PM sharp. Weff may be the precise one, but Deafy is deathly serious about this case. It’s his and Weff’s lives on the line here, and if they don’t get out of this with something, their jobs might as well be axed, too.

The drive is quiet, the radio turned down low to some local country station. It reminds Deafy of home, of big, open skies and the music drifting out to the back porch on lazy summer evenings. He liked sitting out back, listening to the hum of insects in the spring and the crinkle of leaves underfoot in autumn. No one could bother him there.

Approaching a crime family’s hideout in the dead of night is a tad different. The music stays the same, but at least he has company now.

Weff was awfully quiet after lunch— more than he usually is. Deafy noted the slight increase in his nervous tics, the glances he kept throwing Deafy’s way. Normally he’d chalk it up to good old-fashioned nerves about their little raid tonight, but something else was wrong. It kept nagging at him, an itch he couldn’t quite scratch, a piece he hadn’t fit into the puzzle that was Odis Weff.

Deafy pulls into a deserted lot behind the local butcher’s, sneaking under the shadow formed by the buildings. The streetlights seem lower tonight, the sky dark and starless.

“Snow’s coming,” Deafy says, turning the car off.

Weff nods, not looking over.

“You sure you’re up for this?” Deafy asks, shifting in his seat to face Weff. “I know you agreed, but I can’t help but get the feeling you’re a little worn down as of late.”

“No, no,” Weff says. “I’m fine. I can’t leave you to do this alone.”

“Left me alone the other day.”

“That was different.” Weff pushes his hat back off his forehead.

“Different how?”

“Just… had paperwork to do. Like I said.”

“I have a different theory.”

Weff sighs, fist clenching and unclenching. “Wonderful. I can’t stop you from telling me, so go ahead.”

“I think,” Deafy starts, “that raid took a personal toll on you. And you’re keeping it locked away where no one can reach it, but you don’t have to.”

Weff looks down. “Is this some crackpot psychotherapy you’re trying on me? Some of your religious missions or whatever it is you do?”

“First of all, not a missionary,” Deafy laughs. “And second, I’m just trying to be a good partner. Look out for you.”

“Doesn’t seem like you’re looking out as much as nitpicking,” Weff mutters.

“Odis, I’m serious,” Deafy says.

That earns him a look— Weff glaring at him, the dim streetlight turning his eyes to glass in the dark.

“Anything you need,” Deafy echoes. “I’m here. Just talk to me.”

Weff huffs, turning away, his hands tapping away to themselves, his leg bouncing. Deafy watches it all, waiting.

“Was it something the Cannons said? Something they knew—”

“Stop pushing me like I’m a goddamn suspect,” Weff snaps. “If this is you trying to be helpful, then I’d hate to see you at home with the family.”

Deafy goes still. “Try that again. Didn’t hear you the first time.”

Weff slams his hand on the door. “For Christ’s sake—”

“Watch the language—”

“I’m done with this.” Weff yanks the car door open, throwing it shut behind him. He storms off down to the end of the lot and Deafy stays in the car, hoping he’ll turn around and come back.

He doesn’t.

“Shoot,” Deafy curses. Then he’s out of the car, jogging after Weff.

Weff doesn’t even turn to look, though Deafy knows he can hear his footsteps on the pavement. At the very least, Weff has the good graces to stay in the shadows. They’re only a few short blocks from where the supposed hideout is, and if they blow this, they’re back to the drawing board.

“Odis! Wait up!” Deafy calls out.

He catches up easily, as Weff isn’t even moving away anymore. He’s just standing there, chanting quietly, fingers going.

“Weff, look, I’m sorry—”

“Just—” Weff takes a breath. “Shut up? For five minutes?”

Deafy holds out his hands, taking a step back. He glances up at the sky, trying to spot any stars peeking through the clouds. Weff talks, quiet, to himself, but Deafy pays him no mind. Weff asked, after all.

Weff finally sighs, his voice just above a whisper. “Why do you keep going after me?”

“Because I care about you,” Deafy says, simple as can be.

Weff looks anywhere but at Deafy, hands splaying and clenching at his side. “That— that’s not—”

Deafy moves around to Weff’s other side. “Odis. Look at me?”

Weff looks down. “Why?”

“Just… I’m trying to make amends, all right?” Deafy leans back, a puff of cold air leaving his mouth.

“For what? Being hard on me because I won’t tell you what you want to hear?”

“For being quite the opposite of understanding,” Deafy says. “That’s not what the Lord teaches, and I shouldn’t have taken out my frustrations on you.”

Weff shrugs. “I haven’t been… honest with you.”

“Could you try?” Deafy asks, smiling lopsided.

Weff bites the inside of his cheek, glances up. Their eyes meet, and Deafy feels that deadbolt sureness again. The thing like a lock being shut between them, a string tied in a firm knot.

“I’m working for—”

Weff is interrupted by the sound of a truck revving, far too close. His eyes widen and Deafy grabs his arm, ducking behind the closest building. Weff follows, jerking his captive arm a little.

Deafy doesn’t look, keeping his eyes fixed around the corner. The truck that slinks by is a pick-up, its bed empty of everything save for hay. Most likely coming from the Cannons, though Deafy can’t see a logo on the side.

A tug on his hand makes him glance back, spotting Weff’s questioning look in the dark.

“Cannons, possibly,” he whispers, leaning back behind the building. “Nothing in the truck bed.”

Weff nods. “No danger?”

“Nothing yet,” Deafy grins. “Let’s catch some, shall we?”

Weff smiles back, a sharp glint of white in the distant streetlamp glow. “Fine by me.”

They slink back to the car, and only then does Deafy notice his hand still on Weff’s arm. He lets go, rubbing his palm, the echo of warmth still on his fingers.

* * *

Odis guides Wickware to what is, essentially, the back door of the warehouse: a hatch in the ground with a splintered wooden cover that only creaks a little when it opens. They peer down into the dark, and something scuttles.

“Classy,” Wickware mutters.

Odis nods in reply.

Odis goes first down the ladder, and he’s never been as grateful for his gloves as he is now, feeling the edges of something sticky on the rungs. Odis nods up to Wickware and switches on his flashlight as Wickware clambers his way down.

“I can’t keep this on for long,” Odis whispers. “They could pass through here at any second.”

Wickware nods. “Give us a good look, then.”

Odis pans the flashlight around once, twice, five times. Then he switches it off, plunging them into darkness.

Odis starts to creep forward, the picture of the layout still held in his mind. Crumbling wooden pillars, empty barrels, what were surely rats’ nests. A tunnel just ahead— most likely the entrance to the warehouse above.

“Odis,” Wickware hisses.

Odis stops, not bothering to turn. “What?”

“Hang on,” Wickware says, and then there’s a hand on Odis’ back.

He flinches— can’t help the response, really. The hand vanishes as quickly as it appeared.

“If you’d prefer I didn’t—”

“No, it’s…” Odis sighs. “Go ahead.”

Odis can imagine Wickware smiling. “I’m not too good with navigating in the dark.”

“I’m your guide, I guess,” Odis mutters, but there’s a smile he can’t help on his face.

Wickware’s hand finds its way back to Odis’ shoulder blades, and then they’re off, shuffling together toward the tunnel.

Odis feels the way with his hands, brushing against soft brick and cracked mud. The floor crunches beneath them— rats’ bones and leaves, old hay and scraps of wood. Wickware’s hand stays steady on Odis’ back. It’s like a reminder of the world above, a blink of light that Odis doesn’t need to see to know it’s there.

The further they go, the more distant sounds become clear: voices, raised and lowered. Odis glances up and barely spots the outlines of a vent in the ceiling. They move past it, reaching the end of the tunnel as it opens up into what must be a bigger room, and the voices become, if not crystal, audible.

“You two will—”

“—we didn’t agree to this. We said—”

“Doesn’t matter. You already—”

“I can’t hear,” Wickware whispers.

Odis sighs, sharp. “Then we’ll move in closer.”

A pat on his back that must mean yes. Odis tracks along the wall, trying to follow the voices. There’s someone with a lower voice who must be Loy Cannon, a woman’s voice he doesn’t recognize. Maybe one of the broads Wickware was searching for?

“Take your guns now and get moving. We don’t have time for your excuses.”

A sigh— the woman. “Let’s go, Swan Lake. We’re not finished here, you and I.”

“Gentlemen! Show these ladies out,” Loy calls, crisp.

Odis and Wickware go still, listening to the footsteps overhead grow distant.

“Son of a biscuit,” Wickware murmurs. “They’re here, and now they’re leaving.”

“Just our luck,” Odis mutters back.

Wickware laughs, silent, but the slight rumble in his hands travels through Odis’ back.

They wait a few more minutes, but all is quiet above. No scraping of chair legs, no steps.

Odis feels Wickware straighten up. “Might as well—”

Footsteps, closer than ever, coming down what must be stairs right across the room.

Odis doesn’t even have time to breathe when Wickware grabs him, shoving him up against the wall. Light pours into the room from a flashlight, casting over huge crates piled near the outer edges of the room. Wickware moves them just behind a stack as two women, likely Zelmare Roulette and Swanee Capps, come into view on the steps, carrying a shotgun each.

Odis glances between the stairs and Wickware, who’s got his hands locked on Odis’ arms. He’s close, too close, pressing into Odis’ space with his entire body, his eyes fixed on the women as they move further into the room. He’s not moving, not even breathing, hardly, and all Odis can think about is how he wants to crawl out of his skin.

Touch is not something Odis looks for, ever, and now, to suddenly be in contact at every point, he’s shutting down. Lights are blaring behind his eyes, demanding his attention, his need to move and recite battling with the need to be still, quiet, every muscle screaming at him to do _something_ , do nothing.

He barely registers the men who walk in behind Roulette and Capps, the guns in their hands. Odis can’t breathe, can’t move, and Wickware is right there, his eyes wide and actually afraid.

“Hey!” a voice calls out, and Odis almost dies on the spot.

Roulette and Capps turn as Loy Cannon struts down the steps, one hand in his pocket.

“If you see him, tell the Faddas’ cop hello for me, will you?” he asks. His teeth shine in the flashlight’s beam, too even and perfect in his mouth.

Roulette shrugs. “Whatever you say. You gonna let us work now?”

Cannon gestures and the little crowd turns and makes their way through the room, passing into the tunnel without another word. He stays where he is, tapping his foot.

Odis lets go of a breath, inhales, trying to be silent, his hands itching, burning at his sides. Wickware meets his eyes in the sudden dark the flashlights leave behind, the only light coming from what must be the lamps in the warehouse sneaking down the steps. Odis focuses on Wickware, yelling at his mind to be quiet, be still when Cannon abruptly turns and looks right toward their hiding spot.

There’s a moment where Odis is sure they’re had, and he closes his eyes. Waits for the world to crumble around him. Wickware’s grip on him tightens, his own nerves betraying him.

Odis almost wants to say something to him— thanks, maybe, or sorry. But he can’t even speak, still holding onto the thought that maybe, maybe Cannon didn’t see them.

There’s a shuffle, and the sound of footsteps going upstairs. Silence.

A long, dreadful silence.

“Odis,” Wickware whispers.

Odis doesn’t open his eyes— can’t.

Wickware finally moves back, abruptly dropping Odis’ arms, and Odis curls in on himself, trembling like a leaf in a hurricane. His fingers are moving in patterns he can’t even keep track of, and he’s sure he’s muttering, the words and rhymes not registering as the alarms keep flashing in his head.

“Palomino, we have to move.”

“Don’t you fucking talk,” Odis hisses back, standing up in one quick movement. Wickware stumbles back, blinking, and Odis couldn’t give less of a shit.

He moves past Wickware, giving him a wide berth, and stumbles down the tunnel, walking into the walls and feeling for the ladder at the very end. He doesn’t look back, doesn’t listen for Wickware’s footsteps. He just climbs up and out, storming away from the building. It’s a miracle no one spots him as he moves through the shadows of the buildings to the car, finally breathing, shaky and spent but alive, alive, onetwothreefourfive.

Wickware appears in front of him, of course, his hands outstretched, and Odis jerks back like he’s been burned. Wickware’s hands wilt down to his sides.

“Odis—”

“Stop calling me that.”

Wickware sighs, looking away. “Detective, I didn’t mean to—”

“What? Didn’t mean to what?” There’s acid in Odis’ veins, but it spurs him forward, forcing Wickware to take a few steps back. “Drag me into that mess? Almost get us killed by— by—”

“I know you don’t like being touched,” Wickware says. “But I was doing the best thing I could in a bad situation.”

“A bad situation.” Odis laughs, and the sound clangs in his ears. “Tell— Tell me more about the ‘bad situation,’ marshal.”

Wickware stares at him. “You’re calling me marshal now?”

“I don’t—” Odis yanks his hat off his head and runs a hand forcibly through his hair. “One minute, we’re partners to you. The next, you have a problem with me using your job title.”

“It’s not a problem,” Wickware says.

“Then what is it? You’ve been acting strange, and I know strange when I see it.” Odis chuckles, but it’s empty. “U.S. Marshals don’t go into enemy territory on their own, as far as I know.”

“What do you know about being a U.S. Marshal, Detective?” Wickware fires back.

“More than you do,” Odis mutters.

Wickware throws up his hands. “Have you never made a decision in the moment that, by your reckoning, didn’t turn out that great in the end?”

“Of course I have,” Odis says. “But this was ridiculous. More than ridiculous.”

“What about you, Detective?” Wickware takes a step, and Odis jumps back. “What about what Cannon said in there?”

“I…” Odis’ voice catches in his throat. “I was going to tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

Odis looks away, at the buildings, the car, the ground beneath them. “You heard him. The Faddas have a cop.”

“And that’s you?” Wickware’s face is blank, inquiring. It’s like he’s asking about the weather.

“What do you—” Odis cuts himself off. “Yes, all right? Is that what you wanted to hear?”

Wickware just tilts his head. “You think I didn’t already know?”

The trembling in Odis’ arms, his chest, comes to an abrupt standstill. He watches the vapor from Wickware’s mouth rise, disappearing in the icy air, watches the fog from his own mouth stutter.

“You knew?” Odis asks, the words dangerously muted.

Wickware just nods.

“Fuck,” Odis curses, turning away. “Fuck.”

“You didn’t make it obvious, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Wickware says, and why the hell is he still talking? “But the pieces were there. I just came along and put them together.”

“Well, you’ve done a great service to the force,” Odis snaps.

“You know I don’t care, right?” Wickware says, leaning back on his heels.

Odis frowns. “What are you talking about?”

“I don’t care.”

He should have seen this coming. Wickware is just making fun of him again, poking and prodding at this little curiosity before he tosses him aside and buries the key. That’s all this has ever been— some stupid experiment, something to keep Wickware amused before he goes back to Salt fucking Lake City and leaves Kansas City behind to burn itself to the ground.

Odis puts his hat back on, shoving past Wickware, trying not to feel the burn of contact as he does. “Just let me know when you tell the station.”

“No, that’s not what I—” Wickware follows him down the lot, their footsteps loud in the sharpening cold. “Odis, listen to me.”

“All I’ve done is listen to you!” Odis shouts, whirling to face Wickware. His voice bounces strangely off the brick buildings, echoing back in pieces.

Wickware just stands there.

“I’m sorry,” Odis says, and his voice breaks on the second syllable. He closes his eyes, tapping. One, two, three, four, five. One, two, three, four, five.

He doesn’t even know if Wickware is still there, and it doesn’t matter.

“Yeah, I’m a dirty cop,” Odis continues, looking at the ground. “I’m sorry we couldn’t all be like you, Mr. High and Mighty, but I needed information. And they— they know me. They know everything.”

“Tell me.”

“Why?” Odis scoffs. “So you can take it back home and tell everyone about the shit cop you put away back in Kansas City?”

Wickware blinks, rapid-fire. “No. Not at all.”

Odis shakes his head. “Why should I tell you anything.”

“Because I’ll listen,” Wickware says. “I listened the first time.”

Odis tries not to remember Wickware in his apartment, sticking out like a sore thumb and listening to Odis spill his guts out. He shouldn’t have said any of it, but Wickware was right there, oddly obliging.

And he’s still here, standing in the lot like a lamppost. A part of the scenery, blending into the dark.

Odis doesn’t know when he starts talking, but he does. “I told you I was a minesweeper.”

Wickware nods. “Not a fun job.”

Odis huffs. “The day I laid down in the grass, I… got my commanding officer killed. He walked right out, and I didn’t stop him. I didn’t care.”

Wickware is silent, but he’s looking at Odis like he cares, and that almost stops him from saying anything more, the next piece he’s missing.

“Cannon knows about that,” Odis says. “Let me know at the raid. I don’t think he knows about the others.”

“Shucks.” Deafy just looks at him. “How many?”

Odis can’t look at him. “I don’t know. They thought it was just one. Just the one he stepped on.”

“And the Faddas know?”

“Of course they know.” Odis taps, recites in his head, his endless loop.

“They only know the worst parts,” Wickware speaks up, his voice too soft.

Odis huffs. “Those are the only parts that matter.”

“That’s not true.”

“Then what?” Odis spreads his arms wide. “You going to tell me we all have a place in God’s Kingdom? Because pastor? I couldn’t give less of a shit.”

“I was going to say you’re a good man, Odis.”

Odis laughs— actually laughs. “You’re a funny guy. Really.”

Wickware’s eyes glow like the distant streetlamps above and behind them. “None of us are perfect. I’m certainly not.”

“Good for you.”

“But you’re…” Wickware sighs, looking down. “I’m not telling the station about you. I don’t care that you’re in the Faddas’ pockets.”

Odis stops in his tracks. “Why?”

“It doesn’t matter to me,” Wickware smiles, strange.

“You’re getting at something,” Odis says. “What?”

“You haven’t been reciprocal to the truth all night, Odis.”

“Just tell me.” Odis feels something in the air, more than a chill— a drawing of lots, a shuffling of the cards, a hand being dealt with deftness.

The universe isn’t cruel. It’s largely been cruel to him, but Odis has since realized that the world they live in is indifferent. They can’t control the things that tie them, that separate them, any more than the universe itself can.

They’re stuck with the lots they draw, and if this was a game of poker, Odis knows that Wickware is just playing the cards he has, just as much as Odis is keeping his close to his chest.

“You’re what matters,” Wickware says.

It’s a line being scuffed out in the snow— a stillness, a tilting of the street on its axis to a point Odis never saw, didn’t want to see until it was forced in front of him.

“Please don’t do this,” Odis whispers.

“What am I doing, exactly?”

“Please,” Odis says, turning his back. “I asked you once.”

“I didn’t hear you the first time.”

Odis taps, fast, onetwothreefourfive. He hears Wickware sigh behind him, watches the fog rise from his own mouth.

“I’m going home,” Odis says. “Don’t follow me.”

“I won’t,” Wickware says, and Odis thinks he hears his voice shake.

“Promise.”

“Can’t promise.”

Odis turns, unable to help it. Wickware’s hat is in his hands, and he’s working the brim with worried fingers.

“Why not?” Odis asks.

“I might do something stupid and break that promise,” Wickware says, and he’s not smiling.

“Try not to,” Odis says. “I’m walking.”

Wickware nods, and it takes everything Odis has to tear his eyes away. He walks out of the lot and glances up at the sky as he turns the corner. There are flurries in the wind, and he follows one with his eyes, watching as it sticks to the ground.

The sidewalks are chilled beneath his feet, the cold seeping through the soles of his shoes. His apartment is blocks away. It’s far too long to walk in this weather, and Odis could turn around, could look back and show his hand. He’s not a praying man, but if he was, he’d ask for this all to be over. For the strength to face the thing he fears most, the things taken from him that Wickware seems so easy, so willing to give.

Odis shivers into his coat, and he keeps walking.

* * *

Deafy is such an idiot.

He parks behind the station and jumps out of the car, needing to move, to pace. He abandons his hat on the passenger seat, hands on top of his head as he walks the edges of the lot. Odis’ face as he left is stuck in Deafy’s mind like a skipped record.

“Why in the name of…” Deafy sighs. “I shouldn’t have said that. I really shouldn’t have said that.”

Deafy is a U.S. _Marshal,_ for goodness’ sake. It’s not like him to abandon protocol so easily, to toss it into the wind like a bit of ash from the end of a sinful cigarette. It was already a bad enough idea to go after the Cannons alone, but—

Deafy turns on his heel, marching down the street to find a payphone.

Coming to Missouri was a mistake. It was a last-minute decision, and one he couldn’t avoid, and probably one he’d make again, given the chance. But Kansas City is far trickier and uneven than he’d expected. Catching fugitives has always been a breeze for him— every new crime a vacation, a time to kick back and watch the suspects scuttle to him like insects to a light.

Now, he has obstacles, ones he knew he’d find, and one in particular he never thought the Lord would guide him to. He’s not even sure if it’s the Lord who’s guiding him any longer. But doubt like that has plagued him in the past, and one thing has always brought him back, one reassurance.

There’s a payphone at the end of the next block, haloed by the streetlamp just above. Deafy drops a dime in and dials with easy motions, waiting for the buzz of the ringer to resolve into the voice he needs to hear.

“Hello?” the voice on the other end says.

It’s not the one he’s looking for, but he’ll take it.

“Hey there, pumpkin,” Deafy smiles. “What are you doing up?”

“The phone was ringing, and I picked it up,” the small voice says. He thinks it might be Dinah.

“Good job. You should be in bed, though, little missy. You hear me?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Okay. Could you get Momma for me?”

“She’s asleep,” Dinah says. Deafy can imagine her winding her fingers around her hair, getting it tangled.

“Just tell her I called. She’ll come to the phone.”

“’Kay.” There’s a small clunk as the phone is put down, and the muffled sound of small footsteps growing distant.

The familiar pang in his heart chimes— the tug to his children, the need to raise them properly, to watch them flourish into the adults they’d soon become. But there’s something unfamiliar, but not new, mixed in with the rest. A growing weight, the heavy knowledge of kids at home, children that depend on him for every scrap they have.

Sometimes being a U.S. Marshal was the greatest escape a man could get.

The phone shuffles, and then Dinah’s back. “She says she’s busy.”

Deafy frowns. “With what?”

“Busy.”

“Just tell her it’s urgent,” Deafy presses.

“She said no.”

“Dinah,” Deafy warns, but he’s miles away, and what good will it do?

“I’m Mary. When are you coming home?”

“Soon,” Deafy says, the air swept out of him. “Soon.”

“You promise?”

Deafy sighs. “I’ll be home soon.” He’s made enough promises for one night and breaking them all in one fell swoop won’t do him any good in the eyes of anyone, most of all the Lord. Though maybe He has different plans.

“Okay. Good night, Daddy.”

“Good night, pumpkin.” Deafy holds the phone even after he hears the click of the line dying, waiting for his children’s mother to pick up the phone. Waiting for her voice, the promise that everything is just as it should be, that this is the life he chose and was meant to have from the start.

But the line stays dead, and eventually, he hangs up.

Deafy shuffles back down the road to his car, leaning up against it to pull out his sheaf of carrots. The crunch is loud in the winter stillness around him, and the flurries have started to grow, sticking fast to the roof of his car.

There’s a crossroads here, Deafy realizes. A choice he’s already passed, a dip in the road that he never bothered to check before it was gone in the rearview. The rightness in his heart is trembling, loose, and yet it feels more crystal to him than it ever has before.

“Lord,” he murmurs, “what are you asking of me?”

The snow falls, carrying no answers save the quiet.

Deafy sighs, wrapping up the remaining carrots. “I have to go to him. You understand that, don’t you?”

He casts his eyes heavenward, and the silence feels poised— teetering on the edge of something. A gust of wind rushes past him and ruffles his hair, winding around his ankles and sending flurries back up into the air.

“Guess that answers my question,” Deafy smiles.

The sky looks almost purple, this time of night. Deep and dark, hiding nothing save the clouds and the endless snow, falling heavier than before.

“Better get a move on before I’m stuck out here,” Deafy says. He’s always been comfortable speaking aloud, and he isn’t really talking to himself. Never has.

The car starts with a low roar, and Deafy pulls out of the lot, flurries spinning up in drifts behind the wheels. His heart settles, steady, and beats in an even rhythm he can feel down to his fingertips. He leaves the radio off and rolls the window down instead.

Outside, he thinks he hears distant music, muffled conversations. The low rumble of another car, streets away, as it starts to struggle through the snow. The soft crunch of feet on the pavement, the wind whistling simple and thin in his ears.

For once, Deafy lets himself hear everything.

Then he pulls up to an apartment building he’s only seen a handful of times, and when he glances up, he spots a light glowing in the third-most window. Someone’s up, waiting, maybe.

Deafy grabs his hat, smoothing the brim, and keeps his eyes on the window. The light doesn’t waver or flicker— it remains, a port in a growing storm. A vision of something much greater than himself. A promise not yet broken, but soon to be.

His footsteps are light as he walks, heart settled, to the door.

* * *

The knock comes, and Odis knows who it is and couldn’t care less to answer it.

“Weff?” The voice barrels through the wood, a voice that doesn’t care whether there’s an obstacle in its way. A voice that sees no obstacles— doesn’t see.

“Weff, c’mon,” Wickware says. “Can’t leave a man out in the cold all night.”

“You’re in a hallway,” Odis dares to call back. “You can’t freeze in a hallway.”

The silence ponders, and Odis almost hopes he left.

Wickware speaks up. “I could freeze if the temperatures drop.”

“How likely is that to happen?”

“Likely enough in Missouri. Now, really, Odis, let me in.”

It’s the first name that does it, and Odis clenches his fists for it, once, twice, three times, four, five.

“Much obliged,” Wickware smiles, stepping in. He didn’t even seem to mind Odis’ knocks this time, and Odis could hate him for it.

“What are you doing here?” Odis says. He hovers in the doorway.

Wickware walks past him, easy as pie, and plants himself at the little table, eyeing the full ashtray. “Back to rough nights again?”

“What are you doing here?”

“Repeating yourself with me gets you nowhere,” Wickware says. “But you already knew that.”

Odis just stares at him. Waits.

Wickware sighs. “I wanted to apologize. I’m not off to a great start, am I?”

“You could keep going,” Odis says. “See how far you get.”

A ghost of a smile. “Sounds all right to me. I, uh, didn’t mean to corner you like that earlier.”

Odis tries not to remember. Clenches his fists. Remembers anyway. “It’s fine.”

“It’s most decidedly _not_ fine, and I know it isn’t,” Wickware says, spreading his hands. “You’re an open book, detective. Sorry to be the one to tell you.”

Odis huffs. “I’m not surprised.”

Wickware leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Weff. In all seriousness, I apologize. I know you don’t like anyone laying hands on you without your saying so, and I should’ve… well.”

Odis just looks at Wickware while he coughs, short and sharp.

“I should’ve respected you,” Wickware mutters. “You’re my partner.”

“You keep bringing that up,” Odis says, startling himself.

Wickware frowns. “What?”

“That we’re partners,” Odis says. “Does… does that bother you?”

“What? No!” Wickware laughs, sudden in the quiet. Odis’ eyes flick from him to the streetlamps outside, the snowflakes caught in their glow.

“It’ll be a blizzard out there soon,” Odis murmurs.

“Doesn’t matter. I’m not bothered, Odis,” Wickware says. “Really.”

First name again. Odis looks away, always looking away.

They watch the snow for a while. Wickware tilts his head, and Odis, damn it, Odis follows the motion in the corner of his eye. He looks wrong here, in Odis’ apartment. Sitting there like he belongs when he never could, never should.

“My wife hates the snow,” Wickware says, breaking the quiet as calm as a hammer striking ice.

Odis snorts. “Does she.”

“Not a question,” Wickware notes.

“Wasn’t intended to be.”

“She hates it,” Wickware continues. “The world all hushed, icicles coming off the roof, and she looks out at it and rants and raves around the house. I shovel it for her, just to make her happy. Doesn’t work most days, but it gives me time in the quiet.”

“For someone who likes the quiet, you never know when to _be_ quiet,” Odis mutters.

Wickware laughs again, this time more genuine. Softer. “I suppose so. Maybe that’s when I learn to shut up. Out there in the snow.”

Odis looks over at the chair opposite Wickware, approaching it with the careful air of a man walking to the gallows. Wickware just watches him sit down.

“You… like your wife?” Odis asks.

Wickware smiles. “No.”

“Short answer.”

“Short question.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Odis leans forward.

“Because you told me your sad story,” Wickware says, still looking out at the snow.

“So, what, this is a trade?”

“This is me,” Wickware says. “Never shared it with anyone before.”

Wickware’s profile in the light from the window, the snow falling almost around him, silences Odis more than his words.

Wickware takes a moment to speak up again. “We’re taught that a man wants only so much. Wife, kids. Things he should want. Things… I wanted. The Lord gives us these desires, and I had to believe that. Had to. Became a preacher, even.”

Odis taps his fingers, clenches his fists. One two three four five.

“I believed,” Wickware says. “Believe. I’m not sure what the difference is anymore. What more could a man want?”

Wickware looks over at Odis, and there’s snow in his eyes.

“There’s something missing,” Wickware says. “See?”

Odis opens his mouth, and nothing comes out. He has nothing left to give. All he offered has been carried away.

Wickware smiles, and it tugs at his skin the way a safety pin might. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” Odis asks, finding his voice.

“Like you want something you can’t have.”

Odis recoils. “I—”

“You get good at noticing things like that,” Wickware continues, the damn awful smile still on his face. “Not when you’re a marshal, but when you’re a pastor. You see things. Sins, I suppose you could call them.”

“Am I a sinner?” Odis says. The words sound strange in the cold air.

“You tell me. What is it you want, Odis?”

“Stop,” Odis mutters, tearing his eyes away. There’s something brimming underneath him, something terrible and dark, and it’s dragging him down no matter how hard he tries to pull himself back.

“Come again?”

“Your nickname,” Odis says, “is _annoying_.”

Wickware frowns. “I don’t quite—”

“Just— just. Get out.” Odis puts his face in his hands, forcing his eyes to hide.

“Odis—”

“Get the fuck out,” Odis whispers.

“Are you—”

“Get,” Odis says, and then he starts to shake.

He’s had these before— attacks, shakes. They come over him fast, always unexpected in their darkness, and usually end the same. Odis has never quite been able to manage them like he does the rituals, and those repetitions keep these at bay, somewhat. Maybe they make them worse. He hasn’t been certain for a long time.

Wickware’s saying something, maybe, but Odis can only focus on the tremors running down his arms, what are surely tears in his eyes that he can’t help. There’s one thought in his mind, and it’s to get down, _now_ , and suddenly he’s stumbled off the chair, back to the wall, arms locked around his knees like he can block out the world. He keeps his face pressed to his legs, can’t bear to see, to look—

“Odis, I’m right here. I’m not going to touch you, okay?”

Odis keeps trembling, unmoored, the floor already drifting far away from him.

“I don’t claim to know what’s happening, but I’m going to keep talking, all right? No need to tell me to shut up. I won’t.”

That might have made him laugh, but there are images running through his mind, images he can barely hold onto, not that he would want to. People he knew, people he didn’t know. Faces turning into something other than faces. Shuffles in the dark, eyes that can’t see.

“You keep listening. You’re good at that, right? And I’m plenty good at talking. I don’t know what you’re thinking about, but I heard a good tune on the radio last night. I could hum it.”

Odis clenches tighter to his arms, trying to feel the burn of pain, something, anything other than the flashes and bangs behind his eyes, the hollow, cut-off screams.

“Maybe not. Okay. You… you hear that? The creaking under my feet? Those are the boards. They’re a bit rickety. Might want to get those fixed.”

The banging recedes, somewhat, and under them, a creaking sound, like a tree caught in the wind.

“Now, this? That’s just me, knocking away at the table. Not too loud. You don’t like that much.”

A short little burst of sound, knuckles against wood. Flashing receding into darkness. A scream fading out.

“It’s pretty quiet, all things considered. The snow outside. There’s a car going by, I think. Awful silent, struggling through the slush.”

Odis can hear it— a gentle rumbling, a crunch of wheels. He starts to feel the shaking in his arms again, the pull back to himself. The darkness behind his eyelids is just that— darkness. The tug in his mind becomes a small one, something he can ignore.

Time has gone by and left him stranded, but this time, he’s not alone.

“You don’t have to say anything, but how are you feeling? You look a little better. The worst has passed if my reckoning is correct.”

Odis nods. He hears a huff, close by.

“Back to the land of the living,” Wickware says. “And me here to welcome you with open arms.”

Odis shuffles, lets his arms fall to his sides, and opens his eyes. Wickware is— is—

“Right here,” he says.

He’s on the floor across from Odis, only a foot or so between them. Enough space to leave Odis well enough alone, his hat and coat abandoned at the table.

Odis roughly wipes at his face. “Sor—”

“Don’t you go apologizing,” Wickware interrupts. “One of us came here to do that tonight, and dang it all if I’m the only one who will.”

“You… didn’t have to stay. I told you to leave,” Odis says. His voice feels like it comes from somewhere else, somewhere buried under mountains that it shivered out of, aching from the chill.

“And I don’t listen,” Wickware says.

Odis chuckles, there and gone in a moment. “You’ve done your duty.”

“Wasn’t that.”

“Then what?”

Wickware smiles, and it looks heavy, somehow. “Don’t make me say it.”

“I thought you liked talking,” Odis says, quiet as the snow.

“I like you.”

Odis closes his eyes. “We had this conversation.”

“And we keep circling back to it. Odis.”

Odis keeps his eyes shut.

“Look at me.”

Odis shakes his head. “If I look, we’re done for.”

“We?”

“Fuck you.” His voice slides on the ‘F,’ shaking him back to the reality that the two of them are on the cold floor of his apartment while a blizzard rages in its quiet way outside.

“Odis.” There’s something like a plea in his voice, and damn it, damn it all.

Odis opens his eyes. He meets Deafy’s look, not Wickware’s, and something unlocks, like a rusty latch coming loose. A deadbolt opening after all this time.

“Can I come over there?” Deafy asks. His voice is so, so gentle.

“Can you?” Odis replies, and his mouth quirks at the corners. Strings being tugged, strings between them he never noticed. He’s never been a very good detective.

Deafy chuckles, and he slides over, fabric on wood making a strange, whispering sound. He moves around Odis to his side, almost like he’s trying to avoid him, and Odis just…

“Come here,” Odis murmurs, and he reaches.

His hands meet Deafy’s shoulders first, and they’re warm, under the gloves and the vest. It’s like touching a hot stove, and Odis dares to move one hand up to cup Deafy’s jaw, watching himself tremble. Deafy leans into it, his damn pretty eyes fluttering like a girl’s.

If Odis were a better man — any other man — he would never let himself want anything again.

“You keep those gloves on all the time?” Deafy asks, his mouth smiling into Odis’ palm.

“You’re a detective. Figure it out.”

“They’re strange,” Deafy hums.

“I’m strange.”

“That you are,” Deafy laughs, and he leans in a little more. Just enough, but not nearly enough.

Odis lets him closer, one careful inch at a time, and their eyes meet, locking together. Knowing where they are, who they are, the choice they both made a longer time ago than either of them will admit.

“I’m plenty strange myself,” Deafy says.

“Shut up,” Odis says, and he kisses him.

The snow outside falls in droves, piles on piles in the roads, drifts lying untamed under windows, fire escapes, tiny backyards, and street corners. Smothered under blankets, even the streetlamps act dimmer. Most folks slept a while ago, and others watch from their armchairs, their bedrooms. Children sneak out of their rooms for past midnight snacks, and their bare feet are silent when they look outside.

The world — as it is here, Kansas City, Missouri — stands on a rare point of stillness.

Odis and Deafy breathe together, their arms warm across their shoulders. They say nothing. They forget their city’s name. They give, and they give, and they give.


	2. epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a tiny addition for all my fellow sappy people out there.

The chill of the floor has long since been forgotten in the wake of so much time, so little time. Odis feels warmer than he has all winter long. Deafy can’t stop listening to the way Odis’ breath moves, even and steady across his cheeks.

“Think we should go to bed?” Deafy murmurs, soft against Odis’ lips.

“You’re moving awfully fast,” Odis jokes. He runs his fingers through Deafy’s hair, turning it up on its ends.

“Just figured we could use some sleep. Get your head out of the gutter,” Deafy says, a smile lurking at the corner of his mouth.

“All right, all right. It’s around the corner.” Odis makes no move to get up, one hand still caught in Deafy’s hair, the other warm on Deafy’s back.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

“You,” Odis admits. He leans in for another kiss, Deafy’s lips gentle and compliant. Odis can feel the smile there, and he falls into it, his eyes comfortably closed. Deafy chuckles, Odis’ eagerness something new and bright, and lingers for a while, his fingers tracing looping patterns on the back of Odis’ neck.

But time passes, and Deafy pulls away slowly, Odis chasing after him. “Odis. We need rest.”

Odis opens his eyes to glare at him, but there’s no malice behind it. “Fine, fine. C’mere.”

They stand up together, almost arm in arm, unable to leave the other behind. Now that Odis has gotten his hands on Deafy, he can’t keep them away— it feels wrong, somehow, to be separated. Feels uncertain, unsteady, when together with Deafy feels more right than Odis has ever known.

They walk to Odis’ tiny bed together, letting go for only moments to take off shoes, remove suspenders and socks. They lie down in their shirtsleeves, still not knowing where the line goes, yet, how vulnerable they can be.

They just look at each other for a while, a careful distance away, and Deafy’s eyes start to slip shut. It’s been a long night.

“Hey,” Odis whispers.

Deafy cracks one eye open. “Hmm?”

“What should I call you?” Odis asks. “It’s silly to call you Wickware, and Deafy is… you know I don’t like it.”

“Call me by my Christian name,” Deafy mumbles, getting comfortable.

“Richard?”

Deafy’s eyes snap open, and he starts to laugh, softly. “No one’s called me Richard since I was a boy getting into mischief.”

Odis smiles, and the hesitant way it appears does things to Deafy’s heart, buried solid and true in his chest. “Then you’re Richard to me. You’ve done nothing but cause mischief since you got here.”

“Am I really that bad?” Deafy asks.

Odis half-shrugs. “Could be worse.”

“How?”

“If I didn’t like you so much.”

“You sap,” Deafy snickers. “Go to sleep.”

Odis sighs, closing his eyes. “Fine. Good night, Richard.”

A smile in the dark. “Good night, Odis.”

It’s a few moments more before Deafy feels the hand on his arm, careful and cautious. He lets Odis explore, his hand traveling down to Deafy’s side, but no further.

“I can hold you,” Deafy offers, quiet. “If you want.”

There’s a little shuffle, like a nod, and Deafy moves in slow, taking Odis into his arms one delicate movement at a time. He fits perfectly there, or maybe not so perfectly, but when Deafy’s arms are around him, Odis sighs so deep that Deafy knows this is right, even if it isn’t perfect.

“Comfortable?” Deafy asks, for something to say.

Odis doesn’t respond, but Deafy feels a soft press against his collarbone — a kiss — and his limbs turn to slush.

“All right. Good night.”

“Night.”

They sleep, and they dream, maybe, but it isn’t all bad.


End file.
